


And The Dead Shall Rise

by the_random_writer



Series: Separated Twins [19]
Category: Bourne (Movies), RED (Movies), The Bourne Supremacy (2004)
Genre: Brothers, Central Intelligence Agency, Childhood Memories, Crossover, Gen, London, Long Lost Relations, Memories, Plans For The Future, Secrets, Separated Twins, Spies & Secret Agents, Surveillance, Twins, Upsetting News
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-09-02 12:01:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16786567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_random_writer/pseuds/the_random_writer
Summary: A crossover where William Cooper from 'RED' and Kirill from 'The Bourne Supremacy' are identical twins.Born in Berlin to an American mother and a Russian father, the twins were separated at the age of ten by their parents' divorce. William went to the United States with their mother, while Kirill went to the Soviet Union with their father.Each installment in theseriestells the story of a moment in the twins' lives. Some are humorous, some are serious. They are all more or less standalone, but interconnect and refer to each other.William goes to London to meet an old friend for a drink, and receives some shocking and life-altering news.Takes place in September 2009.





	And The Dead Shall Rise

**Pine Bar, Millennium Hotel London Mayfair, 12 th September 2009**

He was three minutes early when he stepped through the door, determined for once to be the first to arrive, but to his dismay, Nigel was already waiting for him.

God fucking shitting dammit.

He loved the man, but just for once, couldn't he mix it up a bit and settle for being tastefully late?

He reminded himself that Nigel was British, and former Royal Navy to boot, which meant turning up for meetings and social occasions on time was pretty much a religion for him. So was following cricket scores, which no doubt explained why Nigel's gaze was glued to the back page of _The Times_ , instead of watching for movement at the main door.

Grinning, William wended his way through the bar to plant himself squarely in front of the table in the right corner where Nigel was sitting. When ten seconds passed with no acknowledgement of his presence, he sighed theatrically and said, "You need to follow a proper sport, Nige. This cricket bullshit's a waste of your time."

Fortunately, he had the experience to back the claim up. The five hours Nigel had once made him spend at a place called Lords watching something called a One Day International match still ranked as one of the longest, most painful and most confusing afternoons of his life. It had made a day at Nationals Park seem almost bearable in comparison.

Nigel's head jerked up, brows furrowed, anger blooming, ready to issue a bitingly British retort. As he realized who had delivered the challenge, the brows relaxed and the anger became a beaming smile. "William, Christ, when the bloody hell did you get so sneaky?"

Still grinning, William held out a hand. "Good to see you, too, Nige. Been too damn long."

Nigel set the paper aside, rose from his seat, took the hand and shook it firmly, then added a trio of hearty shoulder slaps for good measure. For a man of Nigel's background, age and emotional limits, that was the equivalent of a rib-breaking hug, or an affectionate kiss on each cheek. "It certainly has," he said.

William took a moment to appraise his old friend. Nigel's hair didn't seem to have thinned in the three years since their last meeting, but there was far more silver in it than William remembered, plus some new wrinkles around his eyes, although, given Nigel's cheerful temper, likely from laughter as much as from age. He'd put on a couple of pounds (something William was now fighting himself), but otherwise looked as healthy and hale as when the two of them had first met, in a tiny shopping mall café in Yemen, just over a decade ago.

And he was _still_ wearing his cherished Tweed coat.

Jesus.

William was all for getting the most out of clothes, but that Tweed thing deserved to be buried or burned, patched holes in the elbows and all.

As Nigel sank back onto his seat, William pulled out one of the chairs on the other side of the table.

"You're looking well," Nigel declared. "Your new assignment seems to be agreeing with you. Still enjoying the change of pace?"

"Can't complain," William said. Not quite true—he still wasn't sure if he liked his new boss—but that wasn't something Nigel needed to know. "The work's definitely more interesting, but the paperwork's just as bad."

Nigel snorted. "Don't talk to me about paperwork, Billy. You think you have it bad at Langley, you should give the SIS a try. Sometimes, they give me so many bloody reports to read, I start to feel jealous of all the trees that died to produce them."

"C'mon, Nige. You're _British_. You know how it works. Keep calm and fill out a form."

"How was your flight?" Nigel asked, wisely ignoring William's 'advice'.

"Quieter than I expected, probably because of the date. Managed to get a whole row to myself. And yours?"

"Packed to the bloody rafters. One of the least comfortable four hours of my life."

"I guess Muscovites aren't as reluctant to travel on nine-eleven as Americans are."

Nigel's response was a snort. "And how's your room? Never stayed here myself. Place any good?"

"Nice enough. Bed's clean, bathroom's clean, water's hot, mini-bar's full, Wi-Fi works. Bit on the pricey side for my liking, but it's only one night, so not a big deal."

Nigel grinned. "You're in Grosvenor Square, Billy. Doesn't get much posher than this. You want an affordable room, you've come to the wrong part of town."

"Figured it was worth the money to not have too far to walk at the end of the night."

"Speaking of not having too far to walk, you planning on popping across the street to say hello to the team?" Nigel asked, nodding in the general direction of the US embassy building, barely three hundred feet away.

William shook his head. "Thought about that, but I checked the directory back at Langley before I left, and I don't know anyone on the Station." He'd also checked who was on site from the Corps, but didn't know anyone in the MESG posting, either. He'd been out for nine years, so that wasn't really a shock.

"Nobody at work wanted you to hand deliver some classified documents for them?"

"Nobody at work even knows I'm here," William said. "You didn't tell me much about why you wanted to meet, but I got the feeling I should treat this as a purely personal visit."

"And how's your good, lady wife?" Nigel asked, gently resisting William's prompt to dive straight to the heart of the matter. He should have known better than to push his old friend. There were social rituals to be observed, and only once those rituals were finished would Nigel get down to the business at hand.

"She's good. Wishes she could be here. Hopes you and Val are well, sends her love."

"And the mini-Coopers?" Nigel asked next, as always, smiling at his car-themed pun.

"They're both fine. Andrew's in Grade Three now, wants to try archery lessons." William grinned as Nigel's eyebrows shot up. The strange request had surprised him as well, but rather a bow than a rifle or gun. "And Tatiana just started at kindergarten. Can you believe that? Seems like yesterday she was born."

"Is Her Gracious Majesty running the whole school yet?"

William half-laughed, half-groaned. For all that Tatiana was only five, she was already a master at manipulation, _and_ at ordering people around. When the mood took her, she could be just as haughty and commanding as the grand duchess whose name and birthday she shared. "She's doing her best, but Mike and I had a very long talk with all of the teachers on her first day, told them _exactly_ what to expect, and how to keep Her Illustrious Highness in her place."

"Keep an eye on that one, Billy," Nigel teasingly warned. "She's a darling child, but if you're not careful, before you know it, she'll be nicking your fags and drinking your Scotch."

"You gotta stop doing that, Nige."

"Doing what?"

"Referring to cigarettes as 'fags'. I know what you mean, but it's a little bit jarring."

"Just wait until I start talking about bangers and bums."

One of the barmen appeared at their side—Marco, according to the badge on his vest. "Good evening, gentlemen," he said with a polite and professional smile. "Could I bring the two of you something to drink?"

"I'll have a pint of Guinness, please," Nigel said. He winked at William. "Marco here pulls the best pint of the black stuff in town."

William was briefly tempted to follow his lead, then decided to go with a local brew he liked. "You have Fuller's ESB?" he asked. He'd seen some bottles of it in the mini-bar in his room, so he assumed the answer was 'yes'.

Marco nodded. "We do, sir. Bottle or cask?"

"Cask, please. I'll take a pint."

Nigel tutted and shook his head. "Careful, Billy. Remember, it's a full Imperial Pint in this part of the world. None of your silly, fourteen ounce American nonsense, here."

"Yeah, but is it a fluid pint, or a dry pint?" William asked, grinning again, resurrecting a long-running (and totally meaningless) feud.

"How the bloody _hell_ can a pint be dry?"

Marco (God bless him) intervened. Smiling leniently, he asked, "Drinks only, gentlemen, or would you like to see the bar menu as well?

William raised his brows at Nigel, who briefly shook his head. "Just the two beers for now, thank you," William said. "Oh, and we'll take some mineral water as well."

"Sparkling or still?" Marco asked.

"Still, with some lemon, please."

Order concluded, Marco nodded and moved away.

Nigel wrinkled his nose. "What the hell is it with you yanks and your mineral water?"

"Hydration's important, Nige. Good for your skin. Keeps your liver and kidneys in shape."

"So does gin."

"Not hungry?" William said.

"Not at the moment." Nigel leaned in close. "And don't tell Marco I said this, but the bar menu here isn't that good. If you're peckish, you're better off going to the restaurant next door."

Advice noted, William asked, "How's Valerie? Still trying to figure out how to find the end of a Russian queue?"

"She's well. Quite enjoying life in Russia, even with the silly queues. Also sends her love."

"Did she come over to London with you?"

Nigel shook his head. "She knew I was only coming for work, so she decided to stay in Moscow. She's trying to get everything packed for our move."

"At least this time, you're not moving far," William said, knowing the consulate in St. Petersburg was the couple's next port of call. "Not like when they moved you from Sana'a to Buenos Aires."

"Val still hasn't forgiven me for that one," Nigel muttered. "Never did track down those three boxes that missed the ship."

"Anyone in your Station team know we're meeting tonight?"

Another shake. "Thought it best to leave that bit out. As far as they know, I'm just here for the security briefing at Vauxhall Cross on Monday. They find out I'm having drinks with an employee of a foreign intelligence organization, they'll make me write another bloody report."

"At least it's a friendly foreign intelligence organization," William pointed out. "Not like I work for the _Servicio Bolivariano_." Saying that, he'd done exactly the same thing himself, 'forgetting' to mention where he was going and why to anyone back at the CIA.

"Never been to Venezuela."

"Me neither."

"I hear the beaches are lovely."

"Shame about the asshole in charge."

"Bit of a cheeky nutter that one, yes."

William paused to check out the bar. Almost every table was occupied—only the two-seater spot on his immediate right was open. "Popular place," he said. "Didn't expect it to be as busy as this."

"It's always busy on a Saturday night." Nigel leaned in to whisper again. "Especially since the Litvinenko affair."

William had known before he'd arrived that this was where the deed had gone down, but the mention of the now-infamous assassination still made his hackles rise. "This is where it happened, yeah?"

"Right here," Nigel said, tapping a finger on the table. "Litvinenko sat in your seat."

"Figuratively speaking, though, right? Not the _actual_ seat?"

Nigel nodded. "They closed the bar, stripped it down to the floor and the walls, redecorated from the ground up. All the original furniture's gone." He wrinkled his nose. "Shame, really. The old seats were much nicer than these."

"Except for the fact they probably glowed in the dark," William drily said.

Marco returned with a tray. Two pairs of coasters came first, followed by two glasses of water (much to Nigel's disgust), then the pint of Guinness, the ESB, and finally, a small bowl of nuts. The barman smiled. "I will be at the bar. If you need anything else, or decide you would like to order some food, please give me a wave." He nodded politely, tucked his silver tray under his arm and left as silently as he'd arrived.

William grasped his pint and raised it above the table. "Cheers," he declared.

"Bottoms up," Nigel said, briefly clinking one glass against the other.

They each took a sip, then set their drinks down.

"So," William started, settling into his seat. "What was it you wanted to talk to me about that you couldn't tell me over the phone?"

"Is that the social niceties over, then?" Nigel pretend-complained. "A couple of rounds of 'how's your father', then the serious questions come out?"

"Nige, if this was just a social visit, I'd be happy to sit here and swap intelligence gossip with you all night," William said, smiling to take the sting out of his words. "But we both know that's not the case."

Nigel sighed. "No, it isn't." He smiled back. "Sorry. Didn't mean to be such a boor."

"You're not being a boor. But I have to be back at work at eight on Monday, which means I'm on a flight out at two tomorrow, which means I'm only here tonight. So, whatever you came to London to tell me, you need to tell me in the next couple of hours."

Nigel took another, longer sip of his beer, then retrieved his abandoned paper and carefully folded it up.

William waited, recognizing the stalling tactic for what it was. His stomach flipped and churned. Nigel was as smooth and unflappable as they came—the type of Brit who would describe a civil war as 'a spot of local bother'—so if _he_ was nervous, it meant he was about to share something bad. He picked some peanuts out of the bowl, biding his time, giving his old friend the space he needed to figure out where and how to start.

"Billy, by any chance, have you heard of a man called Yuri Gretkov?" Nigel eventually asked.

As it happened, William had. He didn't know the man's full story, since he no longer worked on the Russia desk, but for obvious reasons, he followed the country's political scene, so he knew the basic figures and facts. "He's one of the new Russian oil billionaires. The Pekos guy."

"That's him," Nigel said. "Smart, ambitious, ruthless. A real up-and-comer."

"But _not_ a man of Putin's making. As far as we know,"—and by 'we', he meant the Five Eyes intelligence organizations—"the money he used to buy his start-up stake in Pekos didn't come from anyone in the _siloviki_." Which made Gretkov an exception to a long-established and well-enforced rule. Putin didn't like wild cards, or too much independent thinking. He wanted people to be beholden to him, or if not him, to one of his political friends.

"It didn't, no. Which Putin and his cronies might have been willing to ignore, except for the fact that Pekos is making absolute _oodles_ of money."

"And Vova wants his slice of the pie."

"He does indeed," Nigel said, pausing to sip again. "Which is why the FSB have given Yuri Gretkov a guard."

William snorted. "Lemme guess, officially for his own protection, right?"

"We think so, yes." And this time, the 'we' meant the SIS Moscow Station. "Gretkov has private security people, of course, I mean, these days, what respectable, Russian billionaire doesn't, but the FSB will have reminded him that private hires don't have the same legal clout as one of their men."

"The official story'll be that the guard dog's there to make sure nothing happens to him, but he'll _really_ be there to keep an eye on Gretkov's money. And, if possible, to find out where he got those start-up funds."

"Exactly."

"You think Gretkov's aware of what the FSB's doing?"

"Almost certainly. The man's a lot of things, but he isn't daft."

"How'd you think he's handling it?"

"If he's as smart as everyone says, he'll realize he has to meet with Putin or one of his friends to politely surrender a chunk of his cash. Not _too_ much, but enough to keep the Kremlin robber barons happy."

"That's what I'd do. Can't spend the money if you're dead or in prison. Which is what'll eventually happen to Gretkov if he doesn't play ball." William frowned as he chewed on a nut. "What about the guard dog guy? How'd you think Gretkov's dealing with him?"

"We already know the answer to that."

"Oh?"

"Let's just say that Gretkov and his FSB guard seem to have come to a gentlemen's agreement."

"You mean Gretkov's paying the guy to stay out of his way."

"Yes."

"And is he? Staying out of the way, I mean?"

"Spends most of his time in the nearest bar."

William snickered. "Guess the guy's not really the loyal type."

"You know how it is in Moscow, Billy. Loyalty costs money, and Yuri Gretkov has plenty to spare. The guard will be taking more from his new boss in a month than he earns from the FSB in a year."

"While we're on the subject of money, any good theories on where Gretkov actually got his start-up funds from?"

"That's the really interesting part." Nigel sighed, took another sip of his beer, waited for someone walking towards the bar to finish passing the table, then leaned forward to quietly say, "There's a rumour going around that the money had an American source."

"American?" William exclaimed, stomach flipping and churning again. Jesus. He was suddenly very glad the table next to them was vacant. "You're shitting me."

"I wish I was, Billy. And not just _any_ American source." His old friend blushed and cleared his throat. "According to the rumour, the money came from the CIA."

William sat back as if he'd been slapped. So, this was what Nigel had wanted to share that he hadn't been willing to tell him over the phone. With very good reason, in his opinion. Baseless, scandalous rumour or not, this wasn't the kind of information you wanted the wrong people to hear. Or even the _right_ people, for that matter. Whoever the hell the right people were…

"Nige, that's…"

"Ridiculous? Unbelievable? Outlandish? Completely outwith the realm of all possibility?"

"That's a good start, yeah." William took a deep gulp of his pint, needing the booze to calm his nerves. "I mean, I know the Company doesn't have the cleanest of records, but funding a Russian oligarch? National security matters aside, what the _fuck_ would they have to gain?"

"What anyone has to gain when they have a billionaire in their pocket," Nigel matter-of-factly said. "Leverage, influence, money, power."

William leaned forward to set his elbows on the table, then slowly ran his hands through his hair. "Nige, if you're asking me to go back to Langley and check this all out, you gotta know there's nothing I can do. Yeah, I did a two year tour in Moscow, but that's a long time in the past. I'm nowhere _near_ the Russia desk now. I can't just go wandering in and ask to look through their files. Plus, if the rumour's true, if the money _actually_ came from a CIA source, whoever's behind it'll be running it totally off the books. It'll be hidden so dark and so deep, I'd need a lifetime of digging to find it." And not a lifetime of safe digging, either. The kind of digging that irritated people, and that would probably end with someone putting a bullet in him—the way he'd put a bullet in someone 'irritating' last week.

"I know that, Billy," Nigel quietly said. "I'm not asking you to go back to Langley to check it all out."

"Then what is it you want me to do?"

"I don't want you to do anything."

"Then why the hell am I here?"

"Because the rumour about the source of the money wasn't the only thing I dug up."

"There's something _else_?"

"When we found out the FSB had given Yuri Gretkov a guard, and that the guard was spending most of his time in the pub, my Station Chief asked me to look him over."

William groaned. "Jesus, Nige, you didn't try to _recruit_ him, did you?"

"Good Lord, no. I’m cheeky, but I'm not suicidal. The man takes Gretkov's money to forget what he sees, but that only means he's corrupt. Taking _our_ money, or even helping us for free, would make him guilty of treason instead." Nigel's expression turned grim. "And we both know what the FSB does with traitors."

"If they're lucky, they get a bullet in the back of the head. If they're not, they get tortured to death in the Lubyanka or Lefortovo."

"Exactly."

"So, you were only watching the guy. You weren't planning to make an approach."

Nigel shook his head. "We simply wanted to see where his work for Gretkov took him, who he talked to, what he did."

" _Quis custodiet ipsos custodes_ ," William murmured.

"Who will guard the guards themselves, yes, precisely." Nigel smiled. "Didn't know you knew Latin, Billy."

"I don't. Just a handful of the best known mottos and phrases."

"Like Semper Fidelis?"

The Marine Corps motto. "Like Semper Fidelis, yeah." Nigel was drifting again—time to push him back on course. "So, what'd you find out when you went to take a look at the guard? He give you any interesting leads?"

"He did, yes."

Something about Nigel's expression—a combination of trepidation, sorrow and fear—made William's heart sink into his feet. "Is it bad?" he asked.

"For him, no. For Gretkov, no. For the CIA, no." Nigel paused to swallow. "For you, yes."

William let out an astonished laugh. "How the fuck does this impact _me_?" He'd worked at the Station in Moscow for almost two years, but as he'd already mentioned, that was long in the past. What the hell could Nigel have found that would connect a Russian oligarch to him?

Nigel turned to open his leather attaché case, sitting on the bench seat beside him, He extracted a plain, brown manila folder. William could see the folder contained a handful of colour photos—the corners of some were peeking out at the edge.

Nigel set the folder down on the table. "I'm so very sorry, William," he murmured, brows creased in sympathy and concern. "Please believe me when I say I wish there was another way to do this."

Heart pounding, William pulled the folder towards him. He flipped it open and angled his head to examine the photo at the top of the pile.

A photo of a familiar face.

Oh, fuck. Oh, _fuck_.

No.

This was wrong. This _couldn't_ be right.

The world around him started to spin and fade. He felt his fingers dig into the arm of the chair, holding on for dear life. His breath would only come in short gasps, and his heart was pounding in his ears. Someone left out a soft cry—it took him a moment for William to realize the sound had come from him.

He forced himself to breathe slowly and deeply, driving the darkness at the edge of his vision away. In through the nose, hold for three, out through the mouth. In through the nose, hold for three, out through the mouth. Gradually, the trembling stopped and the dizziness passed.

He swallowed several times, trying to clear the block in his throat. "This… this _can't_ be real," he eventually managed to say. He shook his head. "It _can't_ be him. You saw the documents and the letter. He's supposed to be dead."

He quickly flicked through the rest of the photos. Each one was of the same man—tall and lean, with prominent cheekbones, hazel eyes, full lips and serious brows. He knew the man's face all too well, because the face was the same as his own.

Kirill.

His identical twin.

"When I saw him, I realized immediately who he must be," Nigel said. "Gave me a _hell_ of a fright."

"It's a coincidence."

"William…"

"It's not him. It _can't_ be, Nigel. It's just some Russian guy who looks like me."

"Billy, please," Nigel pleaded. "Don't do this to yourself. You know exactly who it is."

A half-sob caught in William's throat. "Oh, Jesus, Nige," he croaked. "I just… I can't…"

"I'm so sorry, William. So very sorry. I know how hard it was when you received that letter, having to accept he was dead. I can't even _begin_ to imagine what you're feeling right now."

What William was feeling was pain. Raw, blinding, _screaming_ pain. He grabbed his glass. In four smooth gulps, he downed the rest of his beer. He turned to the bar to wave the empty glass at Marco, silently asking him to deliver another.

He couldn't believe it. His brother—his annoying, puny, loving, laughing, devious, whip-smart little brother, the brother he hadn't seen for twenty-seven years—was not only alive and well, he was working for the FSB.

The goddamn, fucking _FSB_.

One of, if not _the_ most corrupt and malicious intelligence organizations on the whole fucking planet.

While he himself worked for the CIA.

It was like something out of a tragedy or a horror movie—he didn't know whether to laugh, cry or trash the whole bar. Perhaps all three, in rapid succession.

"Have you told anyone else?" he asked.

Nigel shook his head. "I'd half-decided not to tell _you_ , thought it might be a stone better left unturned." He blew out a sigh and rubbed his eyes, suddenly looking as weary as William felt. "Then I realized it wasn't my decision to make. If that was wrong, I'm truly and sincerely sorry. I knew this would be difficult for you, but please believe me when I say, I _never_ intended to cause you pain."

"It's okay, Nige," William assured his friend. "It wasn't wrong. You did the right thing."

The tension that had gathered in Nigel's shoulders flooded away. "Thank you, Billy. You don't know what a relief it is to hear you say that."

"What did you tell your Chief?"

"Only what he needs to know. He knows who Kirill is, but he doesn't know _who_ he is, if you get my meaning. As far as he's concerned, I'm following Kirill purely for professional reasons."

"How long did you follow him for?"

"Just over a week."

"And what kind of person is he? Not a particularly good one, I'm guessing, if he works for the FSB."

Nigel sighed. "He's… a pretty nasty piece of work."

"How nasty?"

"Let's just say he has a talent for violence and intimidation that would make even a Bratva debt-collector blush."

"Does he kill people?"

"Not that I've witnessed firsthand, but he carries a gun, and he knows a lot of very bad people, so the answer's almost certainly yes."

William squeezed his eyes shut, trying to drive the mental image away. All that potential, all the intelligence his brother had shown as a child, and he'd used it to become a murderous thug. Not that he himself was really much better. He wore a nice suit, drove a nice car and worked out of a nice government office, but when push came to shove, he more or less did the same thing.

Jesus, what a pair they made…

"Don't suppose you know how long he's been with the FSB?"

"Coming up on two years."

"What about before that?"

Another, heavier sigh. "You really want to know?"

"In for a penny, in for a pound, isn't that what you usually say?"

Nigel paused for another sip of his beer, no doubt needing some liquid courage himself. "Before he joined the FSB, Kirill worked for the SVR," he revealed. "And before he joined the SVR, he was Spetsnaz GRU."

William swallowed the bile that tried to rise in his throat. This was even worse than he'd thought.

"Spetsnaz, SVR and FSB," he repeated. "That's about as mean and nasty as Russia gets. Don't suppose you were able to dig up any details from his record? What departments he was in, where he trained, where his Spetsnaz unit served?"

To his surprise, Nigel nodded again.

"How the fuck'd you manage _that_?"

"One of my Moscow assets is a low-level bureaucrat at the Ministry of Defense. He doesn't have access to any confidential information, but he does have access to personnel and service archives."

"He pulled Kirill's records for you."

"Not the main file, unfortunately, so no family or medical data. Just a basic summary of his assignments and postings."

"Hell of a risk, doing even that. For you, just as much as your source."

"He was well rewarded for his troubles."

"You paid him?"

Nigel nodded.

"How much?"

"That's a private matter for me and my asset."

William felt his blood pressure rise. Goddamn stuffy, puckered Brits, never wanting to talk about money. "How much did you pay him, Nige?" he demanded.

"Much less than it would have cost for Val to ship my body home from Yemen," Nigel replied. "You saved my life that day in Sana'a, William, and I've always believed in repaying my debts. So, unless you want to ruin our friendship for good, you won't say another _bloody_ word on the matter. Is that clear?"

William glared at him, quietly seething inside, then reluctantly gave a stiff nod.

Cooperation assured, Nigel pulled a document out of his jacket pocket. He made to unfold it, but paused as the barman arrived with William's new pint.

As Marco collected the empty glass, he said, "Is there anything else I can bring you? Some appetizers? A salad, perhaps?"

William ignored him, leaving Nigel to chase him away. "Thank you, Marco, but I think we'll stick to drinks for now."

Marco dipped his head and withdrew.

Nigel cracked the piece of paper and laid it carefully on the table. "This is an overview of Kirill's military service and government employment record."

William scanned the information. Unsurprisingly, none of what he saw was good.

Conscripted in 1990. That made sense—the year they'd both turned 18. He must have joined around the same time he himself had gone into the Corps. Two years of general Army service. Selected for Spetsnaz training. The last month of Abkhazia. The Tajik Civil War. The First Chechen War. The Dagestan Invasion. The Second Chechen War. Four redacted operations. Three State decorations. Four commendations. Discharged in 2002. Recruited to the SVR. One year as FSB Counter-Intelligence Liaison. Eleven months with Zaslon. Sent to Syria, North Korea, Iran. Resigned in 2007. Recruited to the FSB. Assigned to Non-Specific Security Operations.

He snorted slightly. "And I thought Zaslon didn't exist."

"We've always been sure it does, we've just never had much in the way of proof. Slippery buggers, don't leave much of a trail behind them, makes them very hard to pin down."

Another line stood out. "Non-Specific Security Operations," William read. "You know what that means, don't you?"

"It means he deals with special problems. The kind involving uncooperative or annoying people."

"The kind they usually solve with a gun," William wearily added. Or, in Alexander Litvinenko's case, a dose of Polonium 210 dropped into a pot of tea.

"He's a cleaner," Nigel concluded. "Every agency has them, Billy. Even the high-and-mighty CIA. You just don't know who they are."

Except he did, all too well.

William scanned the photos again. Based on his brother's appearance, most of them seemed to have been taken in roughly the same span of time. "You take these?" he asked.

Nigel nodded.

"He know you were following him?"

As an answer, Nigel pushed six photos aside. The seventh one showed Kirill glaring at the camera, his hand inside his leather jacket, likely reaching for a gun. The message couldn't have been more clear.

"He made you," William murmured. And Nigel was one of the best on the street he'd ever seen. The man could disappear in an empty room. "That means he has surveillance detection training."

"Probably when he worked for the SVR. They'll have put him through the basic courses."

"What'd you do when he went for the gun?"

"The only thing I could. Switched my camera off, turned around and walked away."

One photo had a different look. Whereas Nigel's were clear and sharp, this one was dark and grainy, and now William looked at it more closely, he wasn't entirely sure the subject was Kirill. "What's this one here?" he asked, tapping on the photo surface. "It looks different from the rest."

"That one didn't come from me. That one, we had already."

"In your system?"

"In the Station database, yes."

"Where'd it come from?"

"From a security camera on the fence outside Trevor Johnson's flat."

"Who the hell is Trevor Johnson?"

"A journalist," Nigel explained. "Writes for _The Independent_. Came to Moscow last year to cover the paper's Russia desk."

William's blood turned to ice in his veins. "Please don't tell me he's dead," he whispered, thinking that if he was, the obvious answer was that Kirill had killed him. The FSB didn't like troublesome or trying people any more than the CIA did, and nobody troubled it quite as much as a British journalist on a mission.

Fortunately, Nigel shook his head. "Alive and well and living in Bethnal Green. The FSB didn't harm him, but it scared him and his girlfriend so badly they decided to leave."

"What'd they do?"

"You ever heard of something called _zersetzung_?" Nigel asked.

Not only had William heard of it, he'd studied its use extensively during his training stint at The Farm. "It's a form of psychological warfare. Invented by the Nazis, perfected by the Stasi. They taught it to the KGB. It's one of the FSB's simplest and most powerful tools."

"That's what happened to Trevor Johnson. The FSB wanted him out of Moscow because most of his articles were highly critical of Putin's regime, but they couldn't find a reason to revoke his visa or deport him, so they harassed him until he broke."

"And you think Kirill's the guy behind it."

"Actually, our facial recognition software does."

"It flagged a match between these and these?" William asked, pointing at the older and newer photos. That seemed like a stretch. "What confidence level?"

"Ninety-four percent."

Not quite enough to lay criminal charges, but pretty good.

"What kind of tricks did he use?"

"The usual stuff. Slashing tires. Opening windows. Stealing the television remote. Pornographic films in the DVD player. Changing the time on all the clocks. Stealing contraceptive pills. Blocking the toilet up."

"Pretty standard. Surprised the guy let it drive him away. Blocked toilets are annoying, but they don't put anyone's life at risk. Didn't Trevor and his girlfriend know to expect some low-level harassment before he took the job?"

"They did, and they were more or less coping with it, until the bastards upped the stakes."

"Something bad?"

"Not bad so much as deeply upsetting. Trevor's grandfather was an art collector. When he died, Trevor inherited one of his paintings. He was very fond of it, didn't want to leave it in storage when he moved, so he took it to Moscow with him."

"What kind of painting?"

Nigel frowned. "What do you mean?"

"What movement? Baroque? Realism? Impressionism? Fauvism? Dada? Precisionism?"

"Right, yes, early twentieth century, one of the abstract movements, I think."

"What happened to it?"

"Someone broke into the flat, pinched the painting right off the living room wall."

"While they were out?"

"In the middle of the night, while they were sleeping in the bedroom next door."

William let out a low whistle. "That's ballsy," he said, then asked, "How much was the painting worth?"

"About four hundred thousand pounds."

The same as some of his mother's works—not an insignificant sum. "Jesus."

He wondered whose idea the theft of the painting had been. Had it simply been an easy and highly visible target, or had Kirill—the son of an abstract artist mother—done some research on the side and realized how much financial (and emotional) damage the permanent loss of the painting would do?

"Penny for your thoughts," Nigel said.

William smiled. "Just thinking, how ironic it is, that if Kirill was responsible for driving Trevor Johnson away, that he did it by stealing an abstract painting, of all things."

"You mean because your mother was an artist?"

"Yeah."

"It's just a coincidence, Billy," Nigel softly said. "I doubt there's any meaning in it."

"You don't believe in coincidences, Nige. You always tell me a coincidence—"

"—is just an enemy plan in disguise."

William swirled his beer. "So, maybe Kirill took the painting for a reason."

"Such as?"

"Maybe it made him think of us."

"You mean you and your mother?"

"Yeah."

"Maybe, yes." But Nigel didn't sound convinced.

One of the photos attracted William's attention again, of Kirill dressed for a smart night on the town, sullen, tense and stony-faced, calmly manhandling an obviously terrified, pretty, young woman into the back seat of a car.

"Any idea who the girl is?" he asked.

"None at all, no. But I doubt she's anyone of importance to him, if that's what you're thinking." Nigel cleared his throat. "Kirill seems to know a lot of attractive young ladies. And his taste in company runs to the ah, how shall I say, slightly _seedier_ end."

"You mean he picks up hookers and strippers."

"Yes."

To William, it didn't sound like much of a life, to be almost thirty-eight years old and still whoring your way through every bar and nightclub in town. But each to their own. Perhaps Kirill would view his life with Mike and the kids as being equally devoid of pleasure and meaning.

"Did I ever tell you that Kirill had a _terrible_ temper?" he said.

Nigel shook his head.

He probably had, but Nigel, as always, was minding his manners.

"It was incredible," William went on. "He could go from nothing to nuclear-level rage in a couple of seconds. And when it happened, the only response was to get out of his way. He was like a force of nature, wrecking everything in his path." Although, he'd sometimes been quite good at the wrecking himself, usually when Kirill provoked him into losing his cool. "Like a flash flood, actually, because it passed as quickly as it started. Ten seconds, maybe twenty, and boom"—he snapped his fingers—"all done. Then he would cry, and apologize, and beg forgiveness, and give you a hug, and try to make peace by giving you his candy, or offering to share his stuff."

He looked at the photo again, seeing the set of his brother's mouth, the coldness in his hazel eyes, his fingers clamped around the girl's arm. "I don't think that happens very much now," he murmured.

"The tantrums?"

"The begging for forgiveness," William explained. "I don't think he's that type of man."

"You can probably blame the Spetsnaz training for that." Nigel paused. "You _do_ know what they put them through, don't you?"

William nodded. "They push them to the absolute limits of what the human mind and body can take. They subject them to so much pain that pain becomes normal for them."

"Their interrogation resistance training's supposed to be nothing short of barbaric," Nigel quietly added.

"Which is probably why they have the highest ratio of deaths in training of any Special Forces unit."

"Is that right?"

Another nod. "By a _very_ a long way."

"You ever gone up against them in the field?"

This time, William shook his head. "Not the kind of thing that would happen when you're in MESG, unless Spetsnaz decided to launch an attack on a US embassy or consulate building." He paused to take a deep gulp of his beer, intending to finish it only slightly less quickly than the first one. "A buddy of mine from Parris Island who went into Recon has. Says other Special Forces units have much better weapons and tech, but if it ever came down to a Recon guy and a Spetsnaz guy in a field with their fists, he'd put his money on the Russian."

"Really?"

"The training's completely insane, illegal by American standards, but it makes them unstoppable. They're not soldiers so much as killing machines." He laughed slightly. "Did you know, Spetsnaz uses something called the _Cooper Test_ as the initial endurance assessment? To weed out the guys they know aren't up to the job? There's another moment of glorious irony for you." He finished another third of his pint.

"I'd tell you to slow down with the beer, but I don't believe you'd pay any attention to me."

"I don't remember you worrying about how much I was drinking when we got shit-faced in that bar in Prague."

"That was different. That was happy drinking. This is drinking to deal with pain. And that _never_ ends well. I don't want drunk William to do something that sober William will have to apologize and pay for later."

"Been a long time since I trashed a bar."

"Billy…"

"I'm _kidding_ , Nige. Not gonna trash anything tonight, I promise." Except maybe his brain and his liver.

"Good."

"But you know what I _really_ wanna do that's even worse?"

"What?"

"I want to shoot my lying, cheating, asshole father right in the fucking face." He waved at the photos. "This is all his goddamn fault. If he'd stayed in Berlin like he was supposed to, instead of running back to Moscow, none of this would _ever_ have happened. Mom would probably still be alive, and Kirill and I would still be together."

"What's done is done, and cannot be undone," Nigel calmly said. "As traumatic as it was, you have the life you're living now _because_ of everything that happened. That life includes a lovely home, a lovely wife and two healthy, happy, lovely children. What happened to you and Kirill was ghastly, but you're still a _very_ lucky man."

William blew out a sigh. "I know I am. And it's not that I don't want the life I have now. I do. Very much. It's just…"

"You'd like to have your baby brother as well."

"Not sure fourteen minutes really makes him a baby, but yeah." Mention of the gap made him remember something else. "When we were kids, I went through this obnoxious phase of saying to Kirill 'when I was your age', then telling him what I'd done fourteen minutes before."

"Can't imagine that went over well."

"Drove him _nuts_. The last time I did it, he had the mother and father of all temper tantrums. Trashed everything in our room." William pretended to shudder. "Was one of the scariest things I've ever seen. Still have the occasional nightmare about it."

"Can I ask a question, Billy?"

"Course you can."

Nigel paused, then said, "How do you think your mother would feel? If she was still alive, and you took these photos home to show them to her."

"I think it would break her heart. She was a hippie, Nige. All peace and love and art and flowers. And she had a lot of issues with the military because of her father's Navy service. When she found out I had signed on with the Corps, she pretty much cried for three days straight. Would probably kill her all over again to find out Kirill had become a soldier as well."

"It's in a mother's nature to want the best for her children. For them to be safe and healthy and happy and loved. You can't blame her for not wanting her sons to take on a job that required them to put themselves in harm's way."

William scanned the top photo again, wondering who the young woman was. She was some mother's child as well. She didn't look safe and healthy and happy and loved. She looked scared and miserable and in pain.

"Are you going to try to contact him?"

William took a while to answer. "I don't know," he eventually said.

"You worried you might not like each other? Come away wondering why you even bothered?"

"I'd say that's pretty likely, yeah." But it wasn't just that. "I also have to consider who our respective employers are. I'm CIA, he's FSB. We're not exactly on the same team."

"You'll have to tell them he's alive, you know. The Company, I mean. You know how strict the disclosure rules are."

"Guess I can kiss my new security rating goodbye."

"You think it'll come to that?"

"I do, yeah. Might have been easier to keep it in my last position, but my new boss is a bit of a hardass. She's not exactly the sympathetic, merciful kind."

"I'm sorry, William. Truly, I am. I hope bringing this to you wasn't a mistake."

"It wasn't, no. Like I said, you did the right thing. Better to know he's really alive." Even if, for all intents and purposes, he effectively had to stay dead.

"You know, when it comes down to it, you and I are the only people who know the whole story," Nigel said. "My Station Chief knows Kirill's an FSB agent, but he hasn't met you or seen a photo of you, so he doesn't know the two of you are related."

William heard Nigel's message. "You think I should keep this to myself."

"It's always an option."

"Would you keep a secret like this from SIS?" William waved his own question away. "Scratch that. _Could_ you keep a secret like this from SIS?"

"Probably, but only if I destroyed the photos, pretended we had never met and forgot everything I'd been told."

"But not if you tried to follow up on the information."

"You know as well as I do, it doesn't matter how discreetly you do it, or how carefully you ask the questions, as soon as you go digging for information about someone in the FSB, the Company will find out what you're doing. And once they know _what_ you're doing, they'll want to know _why_ you're doing it as well. When they realize you've been keeping secrets from them, and haven't disclosed information they had a legal right to know, you'll be in _very_ serious trouble. They might even send you to jail."

"Doubt it'd come to that. I'm not important enough to be worth the trouble of a trial. They'd just fire me and put me on the intelligence blacklist for life."

"Could you cope with that if it happened?"

He took a few moments to consider his answer. "As long as I hadn't lost Mike and the kids, I think so, yeah." He finished his second ESB and pushed the empty glass aside. "There might not be any point in contacting Kirill, even if work wasn't a problem."

"What makes you say that?"

"The death certificate."

"What about it?"

"If Kirill was in a regular job, I'd be tempted to think it was just a typical, bureaucratic error."

"But now you know what type of life he's had, you're wondering if it's something he did deliberately to cover his tracks."

William went one better than that. "Or something one of his employers did for him. Either with or without his consent."

"Hard to know without digging further."

"There is one thing I do know, though."

"What's that?"

" _I'm_ not dead, either for real or on paper, but he's never once come looking for me."

"Maybe he doesn't know how. Maybe he's scared of what he'll find."

"Nigel, he's a government-controlled assassin. What the _hell_ would he have to be scared of?"

"Maybe of how normal you are? Think about it, Billy. If you were in his shoes, what career would _you_ imagine for you? A dentist? An engineer? An accountant? A banker? A writer or artist like your father or mother? Probably not an intelligence and security agent. As strange as it seems, that imaginary gulf might be what's kept your brother away."

"I guess so, yeah."

He leaned on the table and rested his head on his hands, pushing his palms into his eyes. His brain was starting to buzz, no doubt from drinking forty ounces of beer in almost as many minutes. He raised his head to look at his watch—it was coming up on eight.

Nigel finished his Guinness. "Would you like another one, Billy?"

"Thought you just said I shouldn't get drunk."

"I've changed my mind. In fact, I think we should give some serious thought to getting totally and utterly wellied."

William just about managed a smile. "Thanks, Nige. Appreciate that." He wasn't quite sure what 'wellied' meant, but he got the point.

"So, what'll it be? Another beer? Or maybe a nice Single Malt?"

He shook his head. "I don't mean to be a party pooper, but if you don't mind, I think I'm actually going to go back to my room."

Nigel gave an understanding nod. "You need some time to be alone with your news. To 'process it', as you Americans would say."

"Process it, yeah."

"It's quite alright, William. I understand. I know my news has been a terrible shock."

"You're not offended that I'm bailing out?"

"Don't be a bloody pillock. Of course I'm not." Nigel's expression softened. "If anything, I feel like I'm the one who offended you."

"Takes a lot more than some alarming family news to offend me, Nige. Don't worry. We're good."

"Then I'll leave you to your evening in peace." Nigel rose from his chair, pausing to collect his case. "I'll settle with Marco on the way out."

"Like _hell_ you will," William said. "If you insist on paying for the information you got from your source, you're damn well gonna let me pay for our drinks."

Nigel sighed.

"I mean it, Nige. It's the least I can do. Put your goddamn wallet away."

"Thank you, William. That's very kind."

William shuffled the photos back into the folder. "What about these? Don't you need them back?"

"Those are copies I made for you. Whether you burn them, shred them, rip them up, or take them home to show to your wife, I leave up to you."

This time, it was William who dipped his head in thanks.

As he moved out from behind the table, Nigel paused to lay a hand on his shoulder. "Val and I are due to leave Moscow at the end of October. If there's anything you want me to do about this situation with Kirill, I'm only a phone call away, but you probably shouldn't leave it too long. I'll still be able to help from St. Petersburg, but it'll be trickier than if I was on the ground in Moscow. And if you _do_ want to call, don't worry about what time it is. Just call me. Any time, day or night."

His throat was so thick the words wouldn't come, so William briefly patted the hand instead.

The hand withdrew and Nigel sauntered away.

William pushed through the door, stuck his keycard in the activation slot for the lights, strode into the room and threw the folder of photos onto the bed.

His stomach roiled, threatening to rebel. Maybe it hadn't been such a good idea to chase two pints of ESB with a double measure of Scotch, especially since he hadn't eaten for almost six hours.

He grabbed the menu from the desk, relieved to see he could order room service from the restaurant until eleven. He would phone them after he'd called Michelle.

He checked his watch—it was just after nine, which meant in Virginia, it was just after four. He pulled out his phone, pressed the button on the side to unlock it, and hit the shortcut button for home.

Michelle answered after four rings. "Hey, babe, is that you?" she asked, no doubt recognizing the number on the display.

"Hey, hon, yeah, just me."

"How's your day been?"

William paused, trying to figure out what answer to give. "It's, uh, it's been okay."

"How's Nigel?"

"He's fine. Missed seeing you, hopes you're well, sends his love."

She paused, then asked, "Did you find out why he wanted to talk?"

"Yeah, I did."

"And?"

He sighed and rubbed his face. "It wasn't so good."

"You wanna tell me about it?"

"Yeah. I mean, maybe." He shook his head. "I don't know. Let me sleep on it tonight." He had to figure out if he _could_ , then decide if he actually _should_.

"Are you sure?"

"Thanks, but yeah. It's kind of a work thing, so I'm not sure I'm even allowed."

She knew better than to push further or question him on his work phone. He'd wanted to leave it at home, but he didn't like being out of touch, and he hadn't been able to arrange a personal one in time.

"Where are you now?" she simply asked.

"Back in my room."

"You heading to bed?"

"Didn't sleep much on the flight, and it's been a pretty stressful day, so yeah, I probably am." He heard yelling in the background of the call. Smiling, he asked, "How are the kids?"

Michelle huffed. "Don't mind the noise. They're both fine."

"What the hell are they yelling about?"

"Drusha says Tania's trying to boss him around."

"Is she?"

"You know how she gets, so probably, yeah."

"Pretty sure she gets it from you, cus Kirill and I were _never_ like that." The mention of Kirill made his eyes sting and brought a lump to his throat.

She growled slightly. "You watch it, Cooper."

"Can't take my eyes off it."

Now she half-laughed, half-groaned. "Okay, Sergeant, I think you should go to bed before you say something you _really_ regret."

"Just tell the kids I miss 'em, okay? And that I'll be home this time tomorrow."

"You miss me as well?"

"More than you know. Bed's gonna be cold and lonely without you."

"I was gonna say at least you won't have to worry about someone stealing the covers, then I remembered _you're_ the one who does all the stealing."

"Slanderous lies," he muttered. "Keep talking like that, I'll see you in court."

"Says the jarhead to the lawyer."

" _Former_ jarhead, thank you."

The volume of the yelling increased.

She heaved a sigh—the kind of sigh she only used when someone (usually one of the kids, sometimes him or the dog) was about to be taught a lesson in manners. "Okay, I think I need to go break this up before Her Imperious Majesty triggers a peasant's revolution."

"You do that. Make sure Her Majesty has a time out on the back step before the peasants storm the palace." He grinned to himself, trying to imagine what kind of havoc their five-year-old daughter was wreaking. "I'll text you tomorrow as soon as I land at Dulles, okay?"

"I'll get you at the usual place."

"See you there." He thought about the photos of Kirill again. "And Mike?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you," he softly said.

"Love you too, hon. But I gotta go. Think the palace gates are about to give in. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

"See you tomorrow."

Michelle hung up—the line went dead.

He switched his phone off and set it down on the desk, then kicked off his shoes and threw himself onto the bed. He lay with his eyes closed for a few moments, then sat up again and grabbed the manila folder.

One by one, he went through the photos, looking for details he had previously missed.

It was interesting, really, that even though they'd been separated at a young age, and had grown up thousands of miles apart, he and Kirill had ended up on such terrifyingly similar paths. Nature over nurture, right? Maybe fighting and killing weren't skills they'd been taught so much as something that was just in their genes.

His thoughts drifted to his kids. If nature was the more powerful force, what the hell did this mean for them? Were Andrew and Tatiana destined to follow in his and Kirill's steps, to become soldiers and cold-blooded killers in turn? Would his daughter's nascent talent for ordering people around eventually morph into something much worse?

He knew exactly what Mike would say. She would tell him it didn't mean anything, that genes influenced you, but didn't define you, that you couldn't control what cards you were dealt, but you _could_ control what hand you then played.

But if that was true, why had he and Kirill played the same hand, even though they were sitting in two different rooms, under two different dealers, playing in two different games?

He collected the photos and put the folder aside, looked to the ceiling, and closed his eyes. "Never been very good at this, haven't been to church in a while, so not really sure what I'm supposed to say," he murmured. "Just wanted to let you know, that if you have even a single ounce of mercy in you, could you please, _please_ not let my kids grow up to be cold-blooded assassins? Please, _please_ just let them be something normal like an accountant or dentist instead? Especially Tania. Cus sometimes her mom and I really worry she wants to be a dictator when she's older. If you could do that, I'll try to be a better person, okay?"

Prayer delivered, he opened his eyes. His gaze wandered to the Room Service menu, then further again, settling on the mini-bar unit.

His brain was still buzzing, so despite what he'd said, he wasn't quite ready to sleep.

Time for some food, and then a couple of beers.


End file.
